


The Choices We Make

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minisode: Many Happy Returns, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: What if Sherlock's Return was more in line with the mini-episode "Many Happy Returns"? And what if the changes he brought with him altered the trajectory of the future?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 117
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	The Choices We Make

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saki101](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/gifts).



> Many thanks to my beta, Engazed!
> 
> This story is based on the mini-episode "Many Happy Returns", and diverges from canon afterwards.
> 
> I did not tag the specific AU, because that would give away the story. If you are concerned and don't mind spoilers, check the endnotes for specifics. The endnotes will also explain the 'mild dubious consent' tag if that is a concern as well.

Serbia had gone off -- not without a hitch, precisely -- but at least with the desired result. There had been a point when he had been sure he was going to be captured, but he eluded the enemy by the skin of his teeth. One of these days it was likely to catch up with him. Not yet, however.

That had been the last of Moriarty’s network to be brought down. After a long and brutal sixteen months, he could finally go home.

However, Sherlock being Sherlock, he had to make a few detours along the way.

\--------

Tibet had been rather diverting; it took him almost an entire month of posing as a Buddhist monk before he was able to unmask the clever drug smuggler. Even being blonde and female, she had insinuated herself rather well into the group without giving herself away. However, she hadn’t counted on Sherlock Holmes being in the process of resurrecting himself from the dead, and also simultaneously suffering from a bout of boredom.

He had planned on heading straight back to London after that, but then he got distracted in New Delhi with an unsolved murder that the local police were pinning on an innocent man. The old Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have gone out of his way for such a thing, but times had changed. For one thing, the solution was obvious, and therefore needed to be pointed out to the authorities. For another, Sherlock had personal experience with being wrongfully accused. He couldn’t let this one go.

Then there was Germany. Of the several languages that Sherlock spoke, the one he was most fluent in outside of English was German. He had been following the Trepoff case for weeks (as had the entire world). The worst thing to happen in the justice system was an innocent person taking the fall; a close second was for a guilty one to go free. So Sherlock used all the resources at his disposal (mainly, Mycroft) to ensure his place on the jury. After that, all it took was his sterling powers of persuasion to sway the verdict to a guilty one.

And then -- he was truly on his way home.

\--------

Unfortunately, before he could go see anybody that he truly  _ wished _ to see, he first had to check in with Mycroft.

His brother was not happy.

“So brother mine; you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Mycroft smirked at him with that fat, smug face Sherlock had grown to hate over the years. It was 2 in the morning, but the Diogenes was accessible at all hours for the chosen few. Sherlock refused to take a seat, preferring to loom over Mycroft while his brother remained seated behind his desk. Even with the height advantage, Mycroft still managed to make him feel small and inadequate.

“What are you talking about, Mycroft?”

“All those little side trips: Tibet, New Delhi, Hamburg. I thought we agreed you would keep a low profile until you returned to London and we could verify that all of the strands of the web had been eliminated.”

Sherlock glared. “They have been.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Sebastian Moran was the last thread, and it has been most thoroughly snipped.”

“You do realise he has a brother in Parliament who could start to make life extremely difficult.”

Sherlock shrugged. He so loathed politics. “If he does, we’ll deal with that when it happens. In the meantime -- what about John Watson?”

Mycroft looked confused. “What about him?”

“Is he well? I’m planning on stopping by Baker Street later today, visit him and Mrs Hudson. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

“Baker Street? He’s not there anymore. Got himself a little flat out in Camden.”

Sherlock looked appalled. “Not on Baker Street?”

Mycroft studied his fingernails as he delivered his next bombshell. “Of course not. He’s moved on with his life. Started seeing a nurse who works at his surgery. It’s still early days yet, though; he only started dating her a few weeks ago.”

Sherlock scowled. “Why are you telling me this?”

Mycroft lifted his eyes and arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t know. At any rate, would you like his address? I’m sure he would appreciate a visit. Greg’s the only one who’s been around to see him.”

“Greg?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned at his brother. “First name basis? Really, Mycroft? How very -- human of you.”

A faint blush spread over Mycroft’s cheeks. He fidgeted subtly.

Sherlock held out his hand. “Address, please.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  
John dithered for hours, putting off viewing the uncut birthday video. Part of him itched to watch it, to grab onto any extra time with Sherlock. To hear that voice again, see that face. Another part of him wanted to throw the thing in the trash and never think about it again.

He went through half a bottle of whiskey while he sat in his chair and stared at the blank television screen. Finally, he picked up the remote and turned the thing on. 

The viewing was both amusing and painful. Like any thoughts John tended to have of Sherlock these days.

Video-Sherlock had just finished saying “I’m going to be with you again _ very _ soon” when John’s doorbell chimed. Irritated, he clicked *pause* and got up to give the person a piece of his mind. Greg had been the first visitor he had since he got the new place six months ago, and that had been at John’s invitation. Nobody just showed up at his door these days. Not even Mary had been invited over yet. 

Forgetting to check the peephole, John swung the door open. 

  
  


And came face to face with a ghost.

  
  


The last thing he remembered before crumpling to the ground was Sherlock’s face blurring before his eyes and that beloved voice barking out, “John!”

\--------

When he came to, he found himself sprawled on the ground with his head cradled in the ghost’s large hand. The apparition knelt over him, fingers splayed against his chest, concern written over his features.. It couldn’t be, but it looked just like Sherlock, albeit much paler than John remembered. The contrast between his dark curls and his pale face leant a feral look to his aspect.

“You -- How -- “

“Later, John. How do you feel?”

John gave an undignified snort. “I’d feel much better if I could lie on actual furniture.”

“I would have carried you inside, but I hadn’t been invited in.” The chastened look on Sherlock’s face made John’s heart hurt.

“Since when have you ever waited for an invitation? By all means, do enter my humble abode.” And John promptly passed out again.

\--------

The second time John came to, he was lying on his sofa sans shoes. Sherlock was seated in his chair, calmly sipping from John’s glass of whiskey. Catching John’s eye, he raised the glass in a mock salute.

“Premium quality, John.” His eyes flicked disdainfully over John’s sitting area. “More than I can say about your flat.”

John made an exasperated noise as he pushed himself to a sitting position. “It’s meant to be temporary. Until I can afford a better location.”

“And I suppose that location will be chosen by your girlfriend, when you move in together?” 

“What… okay, have you been  _ spying  _ on me? And no, we’ve only been dating a month. She’s not my  _ girlfriend _ .”

“Well, that’s a relief. I might have come back to you sporting a moustache, or worse. Women seem to like that sort of thing.”

John cracked a small smile. “And you don’t?”

“I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

  
  


It was such a ridiculous statement, that John couldn’t help it. He broke out in giggles. High-pitched ones that seemed to go on forever, like  _ before _ Sherlock jumped. Like the last eighteen months had never happened. As if John hadn’t lost his best friend, his profession, and his home all in one fell swoop. As if his life hadn’t been utterly, utterly ruined. 

As if Moriarty had never happened.

Sherlock mirrored John’s amusement, his deep chuckles contrasting nicely with John’s own laughter. A similar scene flashed into John’s head, of the two of them sitting in Buckingham Palace, Sherlock without his pants, laughing like school children. Mycroft looking on in disapproval.

Sherlock glanced at the television. John’s birthday DVD was still paused on Sherlock’s face. Their laughter subsided, and Sherlock’s smile faded. He looked at John, his eyes full of a nameless emotion.

“Oh, John. I owe you a thousand apologies. I didn’t realise how all of this would affect you.”

John swallowed. “You’re my best friend. How could it not?”

The video switched back on, only to show Sherlock winking before fading to black. 

Sherlock winced. “Good lord, I really could be a wanker, couldn’t I?”

John smiled. “At the best of times.” 

  
  


* * *

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon explaining why he had left, where he had gone, and what he had spent the past several months doing. John was appalled and distraught (but also grateful) that Sherlock had had to go through all of that just to keep snipers’ bullets from taking out his friends. That reaction upset Sherlock to no end; hadn’t Mycroft at least explained the reasoning behind his actions, if not the entire truth? It was unacceptable that John had spent this entire time believing that Sherlock had taken his own life in despair, that there was even the possibility that any of the rumours were true.

Sherlock didn’t hold anything back about his time away, not even the tiniest detail. He explained how he performed his ‘magic trick’ and who was involved. 

Well. He had to alter that latter part, at least for now. He knew that he’d have to tell John sooner or later; he just hoped it wouldn’t be the thing to send his friend running and never looking back.

\--------

Two days later, Sherlock found himself at the Diogenes, once again at 2 in the morning.

“This is getting tedious, Mycroft. I _ told _ you that there were no loose ends - “

“Yes, so you’ve said, but how sure _ are _ you?” 

“Very. Sebastian Moran has been neutralised. Permanently.”

“Did you do the deed yourself?”

“Quite.”

Mycroft’s glare was piercing. “Interesting. You’ve always been quite squeamish about that sort of thing in the past.”

“Yes, well… needs must, as they say.”

“Indeed. If Colonel Moran is no longer a problem, then we have a new one to contend with.” Mycroft threw a file down on his desk, waving his hand to indicate Sherlock should peruse it. Sherlock let out an irritated sigh before grabbing the file and flipping it open.

“What am I looking at?”

“Ronald Adair, aged 25, found dead in his study a week ago. A neat bullet hole square in the middle of his forehead. The weather had been quite balmy, so his window had been fully open. Ballistics suggest the shot was fired at more than 1,000 metres away, from an  L115A3. Exactly the sort of weapon used by Colonel Moran.”

Sherlock gave his brother an unimpressed look. “Colonel Moran is dead.”

“So we eliminate the impossible. His brother, Lord Henry Moran, is also a crack shot, who also once served in the British Armed Services. Since he effectively disappeared once Adair’s body was found, we can be quite confident that he is the murderer.”

“Why has this landed in your purview rather than Scotland Yard? And what does it have to do with me?”

“Mr Adair was set to enter our protection in preparation for charges of domestic terrorism against Lord Moran. He worked in Parliament as an intern for Moran, and as such had access to his schedule, routines, and sensitive documents that showed a disturbing -- pattern. Adair was to be our star witness. No longer, of course.

“As to your second query: it has nothing whatsoever to do with you, but rather with John Watson.”

Sherlock snapped his head up. “John?”

“Since it is now widely known that you have returned, we believe that Moran will try to fulfill the contract set by Moriarty before your Fall: that is, since you haven’t actually died, John’s life is once again forfeit. As you know, Sebastian was the sniper set to eliminate John if you hadn’t jumped. We believe that Moran will try to ‘finish the job’, as it were, and in the process punish you for killing his brother.”

Sherlock snapped the file shut. “You think Moran will come out of hiding to go after John.”

“Without a doubt. And sooner rather than later.”

Sherlock nodded. “John and I will be ready.”

“Attached at the hip, once again. That didn’t take long. Does he know?”

“Know what? Why I jumped? You’re the one who should have told him that.”

Mycroft dipped his chin and frowned. “Don’t play the idiot, Sherlock.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Are you sure it’s wise to continue your association? If you invite him back to live at Baker Street, which I’m sure you’re planning to do, then he’ll find out sooner or later.”

“Are _ you _ sure it’s wise to continue _ your _ association with Lestrade? In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never shown any inclination to - “

“I haven’t, until now. More to the point, Greg’s one of us now. I’m not sure John would ever agree -- “

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. Appalled, he whispered, “You didn’t.”

Mycroft lifted his chin. “I did.”

“Did you _ force _ him?”

“Of course not! What kind of person do you think I am?”

“You’re not a person at all, Mycroft! You’re a - “

Mycroft slapped his hands on the desk. “That’s enough! What’s done is done. The only question left is what are you going to do about John?”

Sherlock grumbled, “I’ll figure it out,” as he swept out of Mycroft’s office, coat billowing dramatically behind him.

\--------

It was all Sherlock could do to keep from staring at John while he ate. They were sat at the corner table -  _ their _ table - looking out at 22 Northumberland Street. The case that started it all. Back then, it had been the dead of winter, darkness already having descended for the night. Now, summer was just beginning to die, and the streets were still awash in sunlight at 7 pm. Even so, the sun was on its downward trajectory, and it shone at just the right angle to catch the silver strands of John’s hair and turn them golden. Sherlock was mesmerised. It was all he could do to remember to take a bite of his meal every so often.

Another difference between that night and this. Sherlock was actually eating.

“So have you been to see anyone besides myself since you got back?” John asked as he shovelled another helping of pasta primavera into his mouth. He took a swig from his water glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. He swallowed, and Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes away from the droplet that glistened on his bobbing Adam’s apple. “Well, besides Angelo of course.”

Sherlock shook himself, forcing his eyes upward to meet John’s sparkling blue ones.

“Of course.”

“Like who?”

“My brother, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly -- all those who matter.”

John pointed his fork at him and _ beamed.  _ “See? You do have more than just the one friend.”

Sherlock inclined his head in agreement. “But you are still the one who matters the most.”

John ducked his head and studied his food with great intensity before nodding briskly and shovelling in another mouthful.

Sherlock laced his hands together and rested his chin on them as he regarded his friend. “Tell me, John. Would you be willing to jump back into the fray and help me catch a killer? Just the two of us against the rest of the world?”

  
  


* * *

  
  
It was wonderful, it was glorious, it was gorgeous. God, he had missed this: the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins. Following along in the wake of his glorious madman, content to once again be at the beck and call of Sherlock Holmes.

It must say something about him that he didn’t even flinch when Sherlock informed him that he was the target of an assassin. It wasn’t like he had never been in that role before, albeit unbeknownst to him until just recently. He was almost offended that it was only a politician who was after him, and not some career sniper. But he would take what he could get. 

The excitement was over in a flash, really. A good majority of the time was spent in preparation, something that Sherlock threw himself into with gusto. It was almost as if it were his own life on the line instead of John’s. 

Mrs Hudson was more than eager to help. John was worried about the state of her knees, until Mrs Hudson set him straight about how nimble and active she still was, thank you very much. With all that she had done in her life, it was nothing to crawl along the floor, back and forth in front of the sitting room window, pausing every so often, all whilst pushing along a mannequin whose profile quite resembled John’s.

When John asked how he found such a thing on such short notice, Sherlock just shrugged and claimed that he once helped a department store owner put up shelves.

While he was at Baker Street helping get everything set up, John noticed that the mirror that had always hung over the fireplace was no longer there. Another one, old-fashioned and ornate, hung where the picture of the skull used to be. It was full-length and gilded, featuring dragons at its four corners while fantastical sea creatures frolicked along its edges. 

John stood in front of it with his arms crossed. “I don’t remember seeing this before, Sherlock. Where’d it come from?”

“Hmm? Oh, that. It’s been in my family for generations. Romanian in origin. Mycroft finally decided it would fit in better here than in storage collecting dust.”

“It does blend in well with the decor, I’ll give you that.” John watched his friend’s reflection bounce around the room, tape measure in hand as he determined precisely where the mannequin should be positioned and when. He squinted and peered closer at the image. Was it his imagination, or did Sherlock look a bit fuzzy around the edges, blurry in contrast to his surroundings?

John squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them. He was probably just tired. The last few days had been exhilarating, but draining as well. He turned from the mirror to offer his help. Sherlock needed him focussed; he would make sure to turn in early tonight.

\--------

The fun _ finally  _ took place late on a Tuesday afternoon. John didn’t know what it was about stakeouts, but he loved them. Nothing got his blood pumping faster than the anticipation of violence, other than actually pounding down the pavement in actual chase of a suspect. That was why he had been such a good fit for Afghanistan. All of the downtime, the _ waiting _ , primed his pump like nothing else could.

Sherlock, on the other hand, hated stakeouts. But somehow, this one was different. This time, Sherlock was vibrating with nervous energy just like John was. Pressed up against each other behind some wooden crates as they waited for their quarry, John couldn’t remember a better time. The room was stuffy, sweat trickled down his face and threatened to dribble into his mouth, and his leg muscles were cramping. There was no place he’d rather be. 

John couldn’t recall all of the details on how Sherlock got his information. The abandoned set of flats across from 221 Baker Street was where Moran was setting up his sniper nest - specifically, the first floor flat right across from 221b, from which one could look straight into Sherlock’s sitting room. How Moran got the idea that he would find John there rather than at his own flat was not completely clear to John; all he knew was that Sherlock was sure this was how it was going to play out. And Sherlock was always -- well, almost always -- right. And always right when it counted.

John’s thoughts were yanked back to the present when Sherlock squeezed his arm and whispered, “He’s coming. Get ready.”

John froze, ears pricking to pick up the slightest sound. He couldn’t hear anything beyond the random creaking and groaning sounds of an old building settling. He waited what felt like several minutes, and was just about ready to make an inquiring noise, when he heard the squeak of a rusty key in a lock and faint footsteps growing louder. The man even had the gall to start  _ whistling, _ as if he didn’t have a care in the world and didn’t care who might catch him in the act of attempted murder. 

The arrogance!

Lord Moran swaggered into the room, looking no more dangerous than a middle-aged school teacher. He wore a nondescript brown cardigan over a rumpled white button-down shirt and blue jeans. He couldn’t look any more ordinary if he tried. John made a mental note to ask Sherlock what Colonel Moran had looked like, if he had at least looked the part of a murderous psychopath.

Moran continued whistling as he strode over to the window facing Baker Street. The bag he was carrying slid to the floor; he knelt beside it, unzipped it, and proceeded to methodically assemble an  L115A3 sniper rifle. John’s mouth went dry. He had only seen one such weapon in his life, and the damage it had wrought had been massive. He shivered as he realised the intent of this particular weapon was to put a bullet through his own skull. 

The fear rapidly turned to rage as he watched Moran position the rifle on the tripod, whistling the entire time. As if preparing to murder someone were as mundane as putting a new engine in an automobile. Moran knelt down, put his eye to the scope, and adjusted his position until he became as still as a statue. John knew that he was supposed to wait, that Mrs Hudson had her orders and he and Sherlock were to time this thing just so. But the rage spurred him into action, and ignoring the pressure of Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder, he jumped out from hiding and raced towards Moran, a snarl making its way out of his throat.

Later, he would come to thank his lucky stars that Moran had already squeezed the trigger before John tackled him to the ground, providing evidence of Moran’s intent to commit homicide. The bullet went through two panes of glass, to hit the mannequin in 221b’s sitting room right in the middle of the forehead. A crack shot. Evidence indisputable enough to put Moran away for life.

But right now….

“John!” Sherlock scrambled after John. Tripod and rifle clattered to the ground as John ploughed into Moran, knocking the wind out of both of them. John’s knee dug into Moran’s chest as he placed his hands around Moran’s neck and  _ squeezed.  _

“Think you can get to Sherlock through me?” John wheezed, pure adrenaline keeping him upright. “I’ll show you  _ revenge _ ...” John applied more pressure, and Moran started to gag. His face turned purple and his lips blue, his struggles gradually weakening.

“JOHN!” 

The red haze cleared as John found himself halfway across the room, pinned under Sherlock’s too-slender body. John lifted his head, and saw Moran several feet away, coughing and rubbing his throat. As from a distance, he could hear a whistle blowing, several voices shouting at once, and feet pounding up the stairs. Sherlock rolled off of John and jumped to his feet, the very picture of grace as Lestrade and several of his men came crashing through the door.

Sherlock ruffled his hair, then as calm as you please pointed to Moran’s huddled form. 

“There’s your murderer, Graham. Well. Caught in the act of _ attempted _ murder, anyway. The attempted murder of John Watson. Now that he’s in custody, you’ll also be able to pin Ronald Adair’s murder on him. You’re welcome. Come along, John.”

“Wait just a minute Sherlock. I need your statements; both of you.”

“Nonsense. I know that Mycroft fed you all of the information you needed to track him here and make an arrest. We just made things easier for you. Oh, very well. John and I will be by the yard tomorrow before noon, will that suit?”

Lestrade scowled at him as he slapped handcuffs on Moran. “You’re just lucky I’m ecstatic that you’re alive and well, Sherlock. Fine. See you then. Get out of here.”

Sherlock turned around and offered his hand to John. As he pulled John up off the floor, he leaned forward and murmured, “Are you all right?”

John was immediately assaulted by the sweetest scents he had ever smelt. It was a combination of lilac, pine needles, coconut that reminded him of Sherlock’s poncy shampoo, and the scent of freshly mowed grass. A miasma of desire washed over him, and he found himself leaning in. Closer and closer, until their noses almost touched. Funny how he had never noticed how thick and lush Sherlock’s eyelashes were, as they brushed Sherlock’s cheek and almost touched John’s own skin -- 

Sherlock stepped back, taking the intense odors with him. John blinked, and felt reality wash over him again. 

What -- had just happened?

Sherlock didn’t say a word. He just gestured for John to precede him, then followed him out of the house. John startled to feel a hand settle at the small of his back, protective and proprietary. Instead of feeling insulted, John just felt -- cherished. Cared for.

Claimed?

Sherlock kept his hand on his back, gently propelling him forward, as they crossed the street towards their…. Sherlock’s….flat. His state of arousal waxed, the closer they got to 221b. When they finally stood in front of that distinctive black door, they were pressed up against each other, Sherlock’s front to John’s back. 

“Um, Sherlock?” John huffed nervously. “I don’t have my key anymore, remember?”

Sherlock chuckled in John’s ear, deep and resonant. John closed his eyes and shivered. 

“Indeed? Do you really think I need a key to get into my own home, John?” Sherlock reached out and touched the lock with the tip of his long, white finger. Something clicked, and the door creaked forward. Sherlock reached over John’s shoulder and pushed it the rest of the way open. 

Gasping, John stumbled forward with Sherlock at his heels. After Sherlock shut the door, John spun him around, slamming him against the foyer wall. Sherlock’s eyes glittered and his mouth curved upward. John grabbed the lapels of his coat, and brought their lips crashing together.

John swallowed Sherlock’s gasp, licking into his mouth with gusto. He didn’t register how different it was from kissing a woman, or how Sherlock’s body was hard and angular as opposed to soft and curved. Nothing mattered but the feel, smell, and taste of Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled away with a  _ pop _ . “What about Mary?”

“I broke up..with her...days ago,” John explained between kisses. 

“How can you…break up with someone...who wasn’t your girlfriend?”

“Shut up,” John demanded, then grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him up the stairs. 

* * *

They had forgotten about Mrs Hudson, but as soon as they stumbled into the sitting room she knew exactly what was going on, and made herself scarce. Once inside Sherlock’s bedroom, John let him take over. Sherlock was torn between taking his time and savouring this, or rushing headlong into an endgame of climax. He had to restrain himself, or risk going too far too soon. Consent. Consent was important. If he didn’t have John’s consent -- 

He needed to restrain himself, no matter how warm and enticing John was. Right now John was offering his body.

In time, he could be persuaded to offer up his soul.

Sherlock proved he could be patient as he painstakingly took John apart. By the time they stood before each other naked, John was vibrating with need. He begged Sherlock, much more than twice, to ‘just take me, Sherlock, for god’s sake, are you trying to kill me?’ But Sherlock took his time, teasing and stroking, bringing John to the edge several times and driving him mad with delicious anticipation. Sherlock was driving himself mad at the same time. But it would be worth it, in the end.

Sherlock managed to draw out the foreplay for a good hour before heading in for the kill. John was a trembling mess beneath him -- back arched, hands fisted in the bed sheets, legs wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. They were both drenched with sweat, from the effort to drag out the pleasure for as long as possible. When orgasm finally hit, it shook Sherlock with an intensity he had never felt before. John followed soon after, shouting Sherlock’s name to the rooftops. Sherlock collapsed at John’s side, and watched his lover slowly come down from coital bliss.

His lover. And hopefully something more.

Sherlock propped his head on his hand, and watched John as he waited for him to get his breath back. When John finally opened his eyes, Sherlock laid a hand on his chest and said, “John. There’s something I need to tell you. And after that, something I want to ask of you.”

  
  


\--------

  
  


For many months afterward, Sherlock kept asking. And John kept declining.

Until finally, John gave in and succumbed to the inevitable.

Or... maybe not so inevitable.

* * *

**_Ten Years Later_ **

John stood in front of the mirror as he adjusted his tie. He didn’t dress up often these days, but when he did, he wanted to make sure he looked perfect. He and Sherlock spent most of their time sequestered in their villa by the sea. Tonight, however, they were attending the opera at the invitation of Mycroft and Greg. Sherlock loved the opera, and John had found it an acquired taste after all these years. He was more than happy to come along, and the experience would be more than tolerable. 

He gazed at his relatively unlined face, and ran his hands down his waistcoat. His blue eyes were just as clear and piercing as they had ever been, unclouded by illness or age. In London, it had seemed that everyone and everything around them changed, while the four of them remained the same. It was bittersweet, in a way, although John wouldn’t change a thing. He never regretted the choice he made all those years ago. There were absences that caused painful twinges every so often -- Baker Street, Mrs Hudson, Mike Stamford, Barts, Scotland Yard, Regent’s Park. But they were better off here -- safer, away from considering eyes. Northern Italy had its old world charms and seclusion that suited them better these days. 

Tonight was to be a rare night out on the town.

Just as he was about to turn aside in search of his jacket, he caught a flash out of the corner of his eye. Turning back towards the mirror, he gasped aloud and stumbled backward at the sight reflected back at him.

An older, thinner, much different version of himself gaped back at him from the glass, apparently as taken aback as he himself was. 

John lifted his arm and pressed his palm to the mirror. The other John did not copy this motion; he was frozen in the act of either buttoning or unbuttoning his shirt cuff. The only signs of life were his rapidly blinking eyes. 

The two stood locked in this tableau for several minutes; John lost track of how many. Finally, his doppelganger broke the spell by dropping his arms to his sides. His face looked haunted.

“Are you my past self?” John with the sad eyes asked. “Only, I don’t recall such clothing ever being in my wardrobe.” 

John did a quick calculation in his head. “No. I believe I am an alternate version of you; one that made a different choice.”

The other John’s eyes widened. 

“You chose to be turned.”

“Eventually. He can be...quite persuasive.”

“He didn’t… force you.”

John frowned. “Of course not. He never would. He was very persistent, but it was my choice in the end. Took me nine months to be convinced, but I’ve never looked back.”

“How could you, though? Give up your humanity like that? Become one of those… things?”

“How could I become a vampire, you mean? Become like Sherlock? Well, given the alternative, how could I not? From what I can see, your choice doesn’t sit very well with you.”

His reflection looked away, and swallowed. “Yes, well. How was I to know it would all end like this?”

“Like what? Tell me what happened, in your reality. I assume our paths were pretty much the same, up until the first time he asked to turn you?”

Other John swallowed. “We slept together for the first time after we caught Lord Moran in the empty flat. Afterwards, he told me what he was now and how it happened. How the fall from Barts rooftop went wrong, and how Sherlock would have died had not Mycroft taken matters into his own hands and turned him. That was why Sherlock couldn’t enter my flat when he came back, not until I had invited him in. He told me  _ everything _ that night. How Mycroft was a centuries-old vampire, hailing from Romania, who was turned in the year 1750. That Sherlock’s parents were descendants of Mycroft’s younger brother, and when they both died leaving a small child behind, Mycroft felt it his duty to take the boy as his own and raise him.”

John nodded. “All of that is true in my reality as well.”

“That night was also the first, and only, time that he offered to turn me as well. I refused, of course. We parted ways the next morning, never to be intimate again. I went back to my girlfriend, and asked her to marry me. Sherlock was the best man at my wedding.”

“You married Mary Morstan?”

“Yes, to my infinite regret. Turned out she had been an assassin for hire in a previous life. Her real name wasn’t even Mary Morstan. I won’t go into all of the gory details, but long story short, Sherlock killed the man who was blackmailing her. As punishment, the government sent him back to Serbia as an operative. Six months after leaving, he was killed by a vampire hunter. And I wasn’t with him to watch his back. Instead, I was back in England, playing happy families with my lying wife and our baby daughter. Mary eventually left me, taking Rosie with her.”

“And now... you have Sherlock’s mirror? The same one that I’m looking through right now.”

“Apparently, yes. Evidently, not only can it show a vampire’s reflection, but also glimpses into an alternate universe.”

“And since Sherlock was no longer alive to make use of it, it was the one possession of his you allowed yourself to keep.”

“Yes. How did you -- “

“Because it’s what I would have done. And apparently, I did.”

Other John smiled for the first time. “God forbid someone as vain as Sherlock go any length of time without making sure his appearance was just so.”

“I think its main purpose was to shield a vampire’s true nature from any visitors. But yes, I concede your point.” 

“So, is… is your Sherlock still... around?”

“Hale and healthy, yes. And we’re still together. As are Mycroft and Greg.”

“Good. They… that is, Mycroft and Greg… I’m assuming they’re still together here as well. They both disappeared several years ago, at around the same time.”

“I see.” John looked at his watch. “Look, John -- “

“Can I see him?” Other John blurted out. “I mean, is he there? Can I talk to him?”

John looked at his other self, and pitied him. “He is here, but I don’t think that’s how this works. I think this -- event, is only meant for you and me, right now. Yeah?”

“How do you know that? Maybe this happens any time both of us are looking in the mirror at the same time. We could make it happen again, as often as we like! Please. You don’t know what it’s like.”

The desperation in the other’s eyes made John’s heart hurt. But he knew he couldn’t give in. If it were him on the other side of that glass, and he had no Sherlock of his own but knew that one existed here, nothing could keep him from returning, and begging, and never leaving his alternate counterparts alone. It may make him a selfish bastard, but John wasn’t willing to share his Sherlock with anybody -- not even another version of himself.

“Look, John…”

“No.” Other John shook his head in denial, eyes wide and pleading. “No, you can’t, let me talk to him just once, just once and I’ll never bother you again, I swear.”

“John?” Sherlock called out from the other room. “Are you almost ready?”

“Was that him? Is that him?”

Before John could stop him, Sherlock swept into the room with all the drama of a Byronic hero. John needn’t have worried, though; as soon as Sherlock stepped within eyesight of the mirror, Other John’s image faded instantly to be replaced by John’s own.

“Who were you talking to?” Sherlock demanded. 

“Um.” John made a strangled noise as he stared at his and Sherlock’s reflection. “Oh. Sherlock, you’re never going to believe this.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Vampire AU! As such, John gives enthusiastic consent for sexual relations, but that consent is, of course, manipulated by the very fact that Sherlock is a vampire, and as such exudes an almost irresistible charm. 
> 
> As you probably noticed, not every accepted truth about vampires applies in this story. For example, obviously Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg can walk around in daylight just fine. But they do have to be invited into private residences (which I’m sure makes a detective’s job just a bit harder.) Also normal mirrors don’t show their reflection. As to how a vampire hunter was able to kill Sherlock in the alternate reality, whatever you decide is probably true. 
> 
> And also -- yes, Mycroft and Lestrade became lovers during the Hiatus, and Mycroft turned Lestrade at some point before Sherlock's return. Consensually, of course.


End file.
